


be free

by livetoclaim



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Violence, Missing Scene, Shit you've seen the show you know how this goes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22677535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livetoclaim/pseuds/livetoclaim
Summary: Carol is not an animal in a cage.(Set during S6E11 and S6E13.)
Relationships: Carol Denning & Barbara Denning
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	be free

Carol is getting fucking old.

She takes her glasses off, leaning her head against the wall of the Ad-seg cell, and it's late at night and she should sleep, maybe, but this cell is not _her_ cell and if anyone had ever told her that one day, _her_ cell would feel so much like home to her that sleeping anywhere else would be impossible, she wouldn't ever have believed them, but there it is - and besides, hours and hours later, she still can't quite wrap her mind around what happened, back in the salon, and it keeps swirling in her head, the hard truth returning to stare her in the eye, again and again and again:

She's getting old.

Old.

Complacent.

Careless.

Carol always knew she wouldn't live forever, and for a very long time, she has known that she will die in here. For a very long time, she has known that one day, some younger bitch is going to want what she has - that one day, she will be too old to defend herself, and that she's going to die in here with a shiv in her back and blood in her mouth.

But she always thought that she would at least go down fighting, when it happened.

She always thought that she would go down fighting, die with a taste of satisfaction in her mouth, die knowing that killing her had _cost_ whoever did it.

But no.

Today, in the salon, she almost died, and she didn't even sense the danger.

She didn't even sense the danger - didn't even quite register the janitorial crew as a threat despite their D-block khakis. Only for a split-second did she almost idly wonder what the guards were whispering about when she saw Ginger call Young in, idly wondered what they were talking about when she overheard Ginger whispering _look at this_ but not even _then_ did she quite realize that it might have something to do with _her_.

Not until she was suddenly hauled to her feet - told that she was going to protective custody, for her own safety. Not until she found herself being marched away, before she had quite grasped what was happening.

Not until then did she realize that she had almost gotten _killed_ , and hadn't even noticed. Not until then did she realize that those D-block bitches must had been split-seconds from fucking _jumping_ her. That they would have _succeeded_ , too – that Carol would have been caught unawares, slaughtered like a fucking pig.

Complacent. Careless. _Old._

What a god-damned _pathetic_ way to go that would have been. Cut down in her own salon, noticing nothing before it was too late.

And the only reason she _wasn't_ , was because one of the D-blockers must have gone chicken and alerted the guards.

She only wishes they could have alerted _her_ instead, given her a chance to _fight._

Carol rubs her hand over her face, the adrenaline of the missed opportunity still buzzing in her veins.

Because the truth is that she hasn't had to fight, in far too fucking long. For _decades_ , no one has dared as much as to look at her wrong, much less _challenge_ her _._

So she's gone soft. Careless.

And it's not like Barb has been much of a threat, either, for years and years – too deeply sunk into her sea of drugs to be much good for _anything_.

Her shady D-block intel told her that Barb was sober, of course, but Carol didn't quite believe it. After all, that same intel also told her that Barb had overdosed and almost died and well, no shit - of course that would have forced her to sober up momentarily, but Carol never expected anything but Barb going back to her drug-addled uselessness the moment she had the chance.

Carol never expected Barb to do anything but disappoint her, again - because Carol can count on one fucking hand the people who haven't ever disappointed her, and still have fingers to fucking spare.

It used to be different. Every day in here used to be a fight, used to make her feel _alive._ Damn, these days people talk about the C- and D-block war like it _is_ a war, but almost none of them were here when it actually _was_. When no one could as much as walk out into the rec yard without fear for their life, when there was always plots and intrigues and adrenaline was constantly buzzing through Carol's veins, adrenaline and plans and _life._

Carol rubs a hand over her face. She's fucking fifty-one years old – _fifty-one_ , and how the hell that even _happen?_ \- and she almost got jumped in her own salon and she wouldn't even have noticed, and of course, all of this is Barb's fault.

Barb's fault for going all useless, for spending all of her time high in her cell instead of actually presenting Carol with a _challenge_ – instead of keeping her on constant alert, instead of keeping things in here actually _exciting._

And now, suddenly, out of the blue after years and years of nothing happening except Carol's guard relaxing so slowly she didn't even notice it happening, Barb tried to have her _killed -_ and that means that Carol needs to try to get her _back_ , of course, but the part of her brain that used to be full of plans and ideas feels almost _rusted,_ as useless as the idiots she has to surround herself with these days, none of which she can count on to come up with anything feasible.

Maybe – So one of the D-block girls obviously didn't want to go through with the murder, for whatever reason – presumably, she was just too chicken about getting blood on her hands, about facing the consequences, and that is not something Carol will ever respect, but maybe, maybe that is something she could somehow work with –

But Carol never gets a chance to finish that thought, because suddenly, there's a sound from the corridor – steps on the stairs, the echo of a door opening and closing – and Carol looks up, and she puts her glasses back on to see what is going on, but even with her glasses on, even with her eyesight perfectly clear, she can't quite believe what she's seeing.

Because it's Barb.

It's fucking _Barb._

Carol's heart races with adrenaline, her entire body on high alert immediately even though she's untouchable here behind the bars of the Ad-seg cell, because it's _Barb._

  
And _fuck_ she has gone old.

Because if Carol is somehow fucking fifty-one, that means Barb must be _fifty-three_ and of course Carol knew that, of course she _knew_ it, but _seeing_ it is an other matter entirely - she has gotten used enough to her own reflection in the mirror but she hasn't seen Barb in _years_ , and in her mind's eye Barb looks like a teenager still, like she did in high-school, eyes ringed with make-up and hair teased into submission with two cans of hair-spray; or possibly in her early twenties, a little pale and worn and already too deep into her own drug-stash, like she did after a few years in Litchfield - but the Barb in front of her looks like her own fucking grandmother, old and worn and eaten up, and yet, so much like _herself_ that something tightens in Carol's chest.

Because even though Carol hasn't seen Barb in more years than she particularly wants to count, she has always sensed Barb's _presence,_ fucked up as that sounds. Even with Barb good for nothing but hiding out in her cell, drugs coursing through her system and making her forget all about Carol and all about what used to make Carol's life feel meaningful _,_ she has always felt Barb's _weight_ over in D-block, some sense of _balance_ on the scales of her life. She has always felt Barb's presence at the other end of some invisible rope that might have gone slack lately but which Carol has always known she can pull at, and get a reaction.

And Carol has always known that as much as she hates Barb, as much as she has thought about killing her again and again and put those plans in motion and action, if anything would happen to her – anything that is _not_ Carol herself putting her shiv in Barb's neck – that rope would snap and the scales would tip over violently, all balance lost, because for Barb to die over some stupid power scuffle over in D-block - or even worse, a stupid fucking meaningless _overdose -_ just wouldn't be fucking _right._

Something buzzes through her, hard and sharp, as Ginger pauses right in front of Carol's Ad-seg cell, pauses _almost as if she is going to put Barb in the same fucking cell,_ and that can't be right - that can't possibly be happening, but Carol is on her feet, adrenaline pounding and pounding through her veins as she slowly, slowly backs against the nearest wall, into a defensible position.

It cannot be be happening, but it _is_ happening – Ginger is putting her key in the lock and pulling the door open, and the fucked up thing is that Carol doesn't even feel as surprised as she probably should.

The whole thing feels nothing if not inevitable, nothing but _right._ That after years and years of them never even looking at each other Barb is right in front of her again, right in _the same fucking cell -_ and perhaps this, here and now, is how everything will end and strangely, Carol does not terribly mind that prospect.

Carol has a shiv in her clothing, of course she has, she never goes anywhere unarmed - but she has to time it perfectly, she cannot pull it out before the very last second, not before Barb actually attacks her, because anything else would just mean Ginger taking the shiv away from her and then she would be unarmed – and of course she was always better than Barb with her hands, with her fists, but Barb probably has a weapon, too, anything else would be _stupid_ , and Carol moves her hands slowly, slowly getting into position, prepared –

But Barb doesn't attack.

She just stops, right in front of the door, at the very opposite end of the small cage, crossing her arms over her chest and looking nearly as apprehensive as Carol feels – old and apprehensive but _there_ , there behind her eyes like she hasn't been in too many stupid fucking years, her gaze unclouded and clear and sharp and _sober._

“What's the matter, sis?” Barb says finally, smirking. “Aren't you happy to see me?”

“Maybe I would be if you hadn't tried to, you know, have me _killed_ , just earlier today”, Carol shoots back, the words immediate, instinctive.

“Oh, that's fucking rich!” Barb says. “As if _you_ weren't the one who tried to kill _me_ first!”

Carol casts her mind back, years and years, wondering if that can possibly be true, before it suddenly hits her, the intel she had about Barb blaming her recent overdose on _her –_ but that's fucking _ridiculous_ and Barb should _know_ that.

“ _The fuck?_ ” she says. “That wasn't me! If I was going to kill you, I would slit your fucking throat, not feed you some poisonous drug cocktail...”

And Barb believes her.

Carol can tell she doesn't _want_ to believe her, exactly, but she does, anyway – and Carol doesn't want to admit it, doesn't want to _acknowledge_ it, but there's strange shiver of satisfaction running down her insides at that. Satisfaction that still, all these years of not looking at each other they still, _still_ , know each other intimately enough for Barb to understand that no, that's not how Carol would do it, not something Carol would ever do.

And suddenly, there's another memory flashing before Carol's eyes: Barb, thirty years ago, on her back in the mud in the kick-ball field, staring up at Carol with Carol's shiv to her throat, Barb's voice: _I didn't take your drugs. If I did, I'd be struttin', and you know it._

And Carol doesn't know who of them is hit with the realization, first.

“ _Fuck_ ”, Barb says. “I bet it was fucking _Frieda._ ”

“Did you know she is back in Max?” Carol demands, and Barb nods.

“Saw her out the window, a few days ago”, she says. “Did _you_ know?”

“I saw her coming in, a few months ago”, Carol admits, and Barb snorts.

“A few _months?!_ ” she repeats, incredulous. “You've known she's back here for _months_ , and she's still _alive?!_ ”

Carol doesn't like to admit her failings. “I bribed this old Florida bitch into killing her”, she says, “but she wasn't fucking clever enough. Frieda fucking outsmarted her. _Fuck._ This is so typical of her!”

The more Carol thinks about it, the more sense it makes – she wants to pace, or something, wants to do _something_ with the restless energy coursing through her, but she doesn't want to to turn her back from the wall, abandon her defensible position.

Of course it makes sense, of course that is exactly what Frieda would do. Not merely hide out in Florida, of course not – of course she would strike first like the viper she is, of course she would strike at Carol and Barb before they could strike at _her_ , of course she would attempt to feed Barb faulty drugs because that is exactly the kind of fucked-up genius Frieda always _was,_ a plan B ready if plan A didn't work out - she must have figured as much, that even if the drugs didn't kill Barb, Barb would blame it on Carol and then there they would be, at each other's throats, like they have always been.

_Shit._ Carol would almost admire it, if she didn't hate Frieda so much.

“We should just –” Carol says, quickly, before Barb can keep taunting her about her failings in having Frieda killed, “ – we should just sneak in there, into Florida, and fucking do it, _ourselves_. Fuck!”

And yes, that is what Carol _should_ have done, from the start - from the moment she knew Frieda was back in Max, back within Carol's reach like Carol has _dreamed_ for thirty years that she one day would be, spinning elaborate fantasies about all the ways in which she could take revenge if Frieda ever was unlucky enough to cross her path again. Of course Carol is going to do it herself – how the hell was anything else ever even an _option_? She's going to see for herself the look in Frieda's eyes when Carol puts her shiv to her throat, the look on Frieda's face when she realizes that there's nowhere left to run, that she's going to _get_ what's been coming for her for _thirty fucking years_ –

“And how are you going to do _that_ , genius?” Barb snorts. “Just walk into Florida, shiv in hand, no one is going to stop you?”

Well, there's that.

“We could – Fuck, I don't know –” Carol pulls an idea out of thin air, desperately, “ – dress up in Florida pinks?”

“Hm.” Barb looks contemplative. “Maybe. But they'd still know it's _us._ What we need is a... distraction.”

“A _distraction_?!” Carol snorts – this is starting to sound overly complicated, and Carol believes in _simple._ “Like what - setting off the fire alarm?!”

“Don't be _stupid_ ”, Barb snorts back. “If the fire alarm goes off, they'll just have us all under _more_ surveillance. But... I heard they're bringing back kick-ball.”

“ _That's_ your distraction?!” Carol scowls. “A _kick-ball_ game? Yeah, I bet all the guards are going to be watching _real_ close to see who wins, they won't even notice us sneaking into Florida...”

Barb sighs. “Don't you _get_ it?” she says. “It's going to be a _D-block versus C-block_ kick-ball game. Just a small, small nudge in the right direction, and _playing kick-ball_ isn't what those girls are going to be doing, if you get my meaning.”

And Carol doesn't like to admit it, but Barb does have a certain point. “ _Shit_ ”, she says. “And the moment they all start stabbing each other, they're going to have all the guards out there, trying to stop it...”

“Mmh.” Barb nods. “And you know what else they're going to do? They're going to try to bring all the on-lookers inside, away from harm's way, as quickly as possible. If we're in Florida pinks _then_ , no one's going to even look at us twice. There's going to be _chaos._ All they'll see is two Florida inmates running inside to get away from the carnage.”

“Hm.” Carol finds herself almost smiling – this is starting to sound like a half-way feasible plan.

It's starting to sound almost _exciting –_ and nothing in her life has been _exciting_ , for years.

Outside the cell, Ginger is leaning against the railing, looking impatient, almost disappointed – almost as if she had _expected_ Carol and Barb to jump each other's throats the moment they were in the same cell, and –

Well, why the hell _else_ would she have put them in the same cell, if not because she _wanted_ them to fight? For what reason, Carol cannot quite fathom – maybe she wants to play the hero when she separates them, maybe she wants to prove some kind of point somehow, maybe she just wants some kind of sick _entertainment_ \- but that's the only possible rationale behind it. It's not like there's any lack of empty cells in Ad-seg at the moment, Carol noted that when they brought her here, and besides, even if all the cells _had_ been crowded, it's not like they couldn't have put Barb in with someone who wasn't likely to kill her.

It's not like this is the _first_ time Carol has had a creeping suspicion that sometimes, some of the guards seem to almost _want_ the inmates to fight.

And it's not like it isn't _tempting_ , of course it is – Barb is standing only a few feet away, and Carol can feel her shiv itching under her clothing, almost begging to be taken out, almost begging for her to jump at Barb and _just take the fucking chance now that she has it_ –

But fuck that. Carol is not an animal in a cage – if nothing else, thirty years in here has taught her a kind of patience she didn't have in her teens, and she's not going to fight for the sick entertainment of some bored guard.

If and when she fights, it will be on _her_ terms.

She's going to save all of that for Frieda.

And the strange thing is, when she meets Barb's eye, the small smirk in the corner of Barb's mouth inviting shared understanding, she becomes increasingly convinced that Barb knows exactly what she is thinking. Knows, and feels exactly the same way.

That Barb is not about to fight her, either – at least not here, not now.

Carol doesn't relax her guard, exactly – that would be stupid – but _something_ inside of her relaxes, all the same. Some strange combination of satisfaction and anticipation and hunger – anticipation buzzing in her, anticipation at the thought of putting something in motion, of getting Frieda, the thought of finally actually _doing something_ again _._

And satisfaction – satisfaction over the strange _rightness_ of standing here with Barb, knowing that after all these years, they still understand eachother.

* * *

Carol doesn't believe in regrets.

And so, Carol will never _regret_ killing Debbie, exactly - but if she ever regrets anything, it is the _way_ it happened. She regrets listening to Barb's stupid fucking plan about how they were going to _get away with it_ , how they could play it off _as an accident._ Of course they fucking couldn't, and of course, Barb cracked about two seconds into the cops marching into the house to ask questions about the car and the locks they had found in the bushes, and started shouting about how it was all Carol's idea - about how Carol had a whole fucking note-book full of murder-plans, and it wouldn't surprise Carol if that had been Barb's plan from the start, to blame it all on Carol.

Yeah. If there is something Carol definitely _doesn't_ regret, then it is that they were _both_ sentenced equally guilty, that they were _both_ sent to Litchfield to spend the rest of their lives behind bars, for all that Barb sat there in court weeping and trying to pretend Carol had somehow _forced_ her to go through with it, that she hadn't _wanted_ to do it – that two-faced bitch didn't even have the balls to _admit_ to wanting Debbie dead just as much as Carol did, if not more.

And if there was anything _Carol_ realized sitting in that court that day - watching Barb put on her show, watching all the disgusted, judgmental faces of everyone in the room - it was that they would _never ever_ get away with it.

That she might as well put two middle-fingers in the air and be fucking _proud_ of what she did.

_Yeah we killed that little bitch_ , Carol said into the mic when she was called up into the witness stand, grinning wide and meeting the eyes of every chocked, appalled person in the room, one after one after one: _We killed her, and she fucking deserved it, too._

_Fuck_ the media loved that – she was quoted in newspapers from one coast to the other, and when she came to Litchfield – when she and Barb came to Litchfield – _everyone_ knew who they were, already.

And if thirty years in prison has taught her a kind of patience that she didn't have when she was in her teens, and if Carol at fifty-one knows that if she had had some of that patience then, then she might also have had the patience to give it a few more years, maybe – The patience to realize that given only a few more years, she could perhaps have had the money for her own apartment, her own life, that given a just a few more years, she could perhaps have been rid of all of them, all the same –

Then no - she _still_ doesn't regret it.

Because even though Carol is somehow fifty-one - even though there are parts of her that feel old and worn out, rusted and run over by time - there is also a part of her that will never feel older than seventeen. Seventeen - when _a few years_ felt like an eternity, when they were going to move her to _Texas_ , hauling her across the fucking country _again,_ helpless and powerless, when she knew she would never ever be free, never ever escape.

She cannot regret it, because she doesn't have the imagination to picture how her life could ever have been different than it was, right then. How she ever could have walked away from any of them, how any of them could ever have made it possible for her to walk away, how she ever could have been free.

  
She _refuses_ to regret it - because _in_ prison, Carol has been far more powerful than she ever was _out_ of it.

And if thirty years in prison has taught her anything, it is this: That regrets are pointless. That you have to _own_ who you are, what you have done. That you have to make what you are and what you are capable of into your strength, shove it in people's faces instead of trying to pretend to be something you're not. That when faced with the inevitable, the only way to be free is to make sure you face it on your own terms.

* * *

“It's awfully quiet out there”, Barb says, listening at the door to the utility closet. “Looks like _your girls_ aren't much good at fighting, after all....”

“ _My_ girls?!” Carol scowls. “ _My_ girls do what I tell them to do, _yours_ on the other hand –”

Barb's girls are all useless druggies, of course they are – and how the hell Barb imagines she is able to strike enough fear into them to get them to do what she says when half of them never even _see_ her, Carol has no idea, so of course it's all Barb's fault, but –

She shoves Barb out of the way, listening herself - because it's not as if she should trust anything Barb says – but Barb is right: it _is_ awfully quiet, out there. She opens the door, just a crack, and peers out into the corridor: it's empty, quiet, nothing at all letting on that there is anything out of the ordinary going on, out on the kick-ball field.

“This is fucking weird if you ask me. Something must have gone wrong out there”, Carol says, gritting her teeth.

Fuck, this would _never_ have happened twenty years ago. Twenty years ago, the blood-bath would have been in motion the moment those girls stepped onto the field - because twenty years ago the girls actually _cared_ about the war, _wanted_ each other dead, and twenty years ago, Carol had people around she could actually trust to be at least the bare minimum of _competent._

And _now_ what does she have? Badison is an idiot – Carol knows that, but she still counted on her to at least be able to kick the girls into enough of a frenzy to get them fighting, and now it looks like Badison couldn't even accomplish _that_. And Vause might possibly have a half a brain, but she's plainly not a fighter – frankly, Carol is not even sure she is much of a _leader_ , at least not in the way she would need to be, in here – and while she might turn out to have her uses anyway, making her go on the field was more about making Vause prove her loyalty than because Carol imagined she might actually do much good, out there.

As for the rest of them, Carol doesn't even _care –_ they're all useless, anyway.

Or maybe it's just that Barb's plan is _shit._

Just like Barb's plans are _always_ shit.

“Yeah? You _think_ so?” Barb scowls, getting to her feet – as if the failure is somehow _Carol's_ fault, and that is the one thing Carol really, really cannot stand, that snide _implication_ in Barb's voice, the deliberate provocation.

“You got something to _say_ to me, Barb?” she says – because, fuck, if Barb has something to say, then she should just fucking _say_ it, say whatever the hell she means, and if not, then shut up or Carol will _make_ her.

But Barb does neither – she just takes a step forwards. “Are you _threatening_ me, Carol?” she says.

And something... clicks, almost, some understanding falling into place somewhere deep inside of her: a realization that Barb wants a fight, wants _to_ fight - if not with Frieda, then with _her._

That maybe this was even Barb's plan, from the beginning - that maybe Barb didn't even care that much about revenge on Frieda to begin with. Frieda might have sold out Barb too, and landed her with another thirty years in prison just like she did with Carol, but Frieda was – Frieda was _C-block_ , she was Carol's – _companion_ , her _confidant_ , her fucking _second-in-command_ , and there's no way in hell her betrayal cut Barb as close, as _personally_ , as it did Carol.

That maybe this was all a ploy of Barb's just to get Carol here - and perhaps the reason people are not stabbing each other out on the kick-ball field right now is because Barb didn't hold up her end of the bargain, _didn't_ provoke her girls into fighting C-block like they had agreed.

And Carol doesn't know why, exactly, but somehow, that notion makes her feel strangely elated, strangely _light_ , deep inside.

Light - almost _relieved_ , even though she couldn't say why, and she laughs, almost.

“That depends on what you've got planned, Barb”, she says, the lightness creeping into her head, making her feel almost faint. “Cause _I'm_ here to kill Frieda...”

“ _Bullshit!_ ” Barb scowls – and Carol knows, she _knows_ Barb is out to provoke her and still the statement ignites a spark of anger, igniting and rushing through her, red and hot.

Because Carol can stand to be called a lot of things – Carol _is_ a lot of things - but the one thing she is _not_ , is a liar.

“ _Bulltrue!_ ” she shoots back, the comeback instinctive, and Barb almost, almost smiles.

Almost smiles, and pulls out her shiv. “No”, she says, “I don't think that's why you're here, at all.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Carol scowls, and she pulls out her shiv, too – the adrenaline is starting to pound through her in earnest, because no one – _no one_ – has dared to call her a liar in thirty years, and for _Barb_ to have the fucking gall to pick the one insult she knows will sear Carol more than anything else, for Barb to call _her_ a liar when everything Barb is and ever has been is based on the deliberate falsehood of her pretending to be something she's not, of Barb pretending to be the good sister, the innocent, when she's anything but –

“Everybody knows you're a fucking liar”, Barb says, smirking, holding her shiv out like an invitation.

And Carol knows, suddenly, that if she steps forwards, there will be no stepping back, again.

That they are _alone_ here, in this stupid utility closet, _alone_ like they haven't been in thirty years.

That everybody else is preoccupied, that there will be no one stopping them, no one to pull them apart if they decide to finally, finally have it out, right here and right now.

_Fuck_ Frieda, Carol thinks suddenly. She hates Frieda, of course she does, she will always, always hate Frieda for what Frieda did to her – for selling her out, for fooling her, for fucking _betraying_ her, but she not worth this – she doesn't _deserve_ this.

She doesn't deserve a good, clean death - and she sure as fuck doesn't deserve the chance to take Carol down with her.

Frieda deserves to rot away in Florida for decades and decades, she deserves to die of boredom and old age, prisoner inside a mind that is slowly falling to pieces, prisoner inside the realization that the _survival_ she always talked about like it was the highest, loftiest goal one could possibly aspire to means exactly this: Frieda being forced to live, to keep living, for decades and decades inside of walls and more walls, faced with the creeping, inevitable decay of her mind and her body, the slow decline of everything she has ever been: an animal in a cage.

For what Frieda did to her, _that_ is what she deserves.

But Barb –

Barb is here.

_Here._

Barb – her sister, her enemy, her perfect opposite, the balance on her scales. Barb, with a shiv in her hand and a glittering, deadly challenge in her eyes.

And Carol feels, suddenly, _young_ again.

Young, and _alive -_ adrenaline and the promise of a fight singing in her nerves, in her body, an irresistible, beautiful pull.

And Barb is old, old and worn but _sober -_ _there_ behind her eyes like she hasn't been in too many stupid fucking years, and the challenge when she raises her shiv is almost an invitation, and Carol –

Well, she always knew she would die in here.

And all she ever wanted was to go down fighting.

So Carol lifts her shiv, and she smiles.

And she steps forwards.

Because after all, there are far, far worse ways to go than this.


End file.
